


New Arrivals

by Gwyn_Paige



Series: Paladin Martin/Angel Jon AU [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angels, Fluff, Libraries, M/M, Martin Blackwood's Poetry, Moth Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Paladins, Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:40:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26584549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: Jon is an Angel of Written Knowledge, and Martin is his only paladin. Recently, Martin's poetry has started appearing in Jon's library.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Paladin Martin/Angel Jon AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936486
Comments: 59
Kudos: 437





	New Arrivals

**Author's Note:**

> First off, my amazing friend Moss ([coulson-is-an-avenger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coulson_is_an_avenger/pseuds/coulson_is_an_avenger)), who has been listening to me ramble about this AU for weeks now, drew [this absolutely gorgeous fanart](https://mossy-rainfrog.tumblr.com/post/629668481651146752/so-ive-recently-become-completely-enamored-with) of angel Jon and paladin Martin. Technically this is based on the second fic in this series, but there aren't any spoilers in the art so I'm sharing it here. Go stare at it with your eyeballs! You won't regret it.
> 
> Secondly, this (very self-indulgent) AU was inspired by [this Tumblr post](https://acemartinblackwood.tumblr.com/post/617836237923958784/when-paladin-martin-channels-divinity-such-as) by dathen and acemartinblackwood. I say inspired by because while this fic does feature Martin as a paladin and Jon as an angel, I didn't necessarily jive with the rules about paladins, so I sort of made up my own system for how they work.
> 
> You absolutely don't need to know anything about angels or paladins in order to understand this fic; everything relevant should be explained in the text.
> 
> Please, enjoy!

“That . . . wasn’t there before.”

Jon set down the half-finished novel he’d been reading and approached the new item that had just arrived in the poetry section of his library. It had appeared soundlessly and unobtrusively, as everything in Jon’s library did, already sitting in its proper place on the shelf, faultlessly sorted and alphabetized. Jon had only noticed it because he had just finished perusing his sparse poetry section, and there had definitely not been a sheaf of papers sticking out from between the other books there an hour ago.

His moths had been reading some unusual material, it seemed. Ordinarily they went for dry historical volumes and verbose novels, which made up the bulk of Jon’s collection. Like Jon, they enjoyed words, and the more words the better, generally. It was one of the many reasons that Jon’s poetry section was as sparse as it was.

Today, apparently, one of the moths had branched out a bit. Nothing wrong with that, Jon supposed, as he carefully extracted the papers from between the thick volumes that surrounded them. He wasn’t planning on reading them all the way through; he disliked poetry as a rule, and while he let his moths read what they might, he rarely actually took the time to read through it himself. Still, he was curious about these orphaned pages, and decided there would be no harm in having a look at the first one.

“ ‘Streets,’ ” Jon read aloud into the peaceful quiet of the library, “by Martin K—oh goodness.”

Martin. It was _Martin’s_ poetry. _His_ Martin, if Jon wasn’t horribly mistaken. He had never heard of another poet with the name Blackwood, at least. And it would explain the handwritten lettering, and the loose sheets of paper.

Despite himself, Jon felt his face heat. None of his moths had ever been so bold as to read over Martin’s shoulder while he was writing before. He’d have to give them quite a stern talking-to later; his paladin’s privacy was just as important as his safety, and Jon refused to violate it, even indirectly.

Which also meant that as much as he wanted to, as much as his natural curiosity tugged at his proverbial sleeve, Jon simply would not read these poems. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he stuffed the papers back into the shelf and walked briskly away, trying not to think about them—or Martin—any longer.

It worked, for a time; he was able to spend the rest of the afternoon (well, the afternoon of the mortal plane, at least; time was much less consistent on the ethereal plane, where Jon’s library stood) engrossed in a thick text about the history of a small town in the northern realms that had usurped its corrupt mayor and then reinstated him no less than seven times in a single year.

When evening fell, however, Jon felt the now-familiar pull of Martin’s nightly prayer and set his book aside. At first, the sensation of a paladin’s prayer had been strange to him, a sort of gentle but persistent tug on Jon’s attention. Like a tap on his shoulder to make him glance up from his reading. Jon had gotten used to it, with time, and he now quite looked forward to listening to Martin every night as he talked about his day, almost conversationally discussing his frustrations, minor victories, and most often simply the mundanities of his everyday life. Jon was always entranced; most of the time, ordinary mortal lives were just as interesting as the sorts of things that were written about in books, even if most mortals didn’t seem to realize it. Martin’s life was especially interesting—though Jon was, admittedly, biased in that regard. It could be that he simply enjoyed listening to Martin talk.

Martin was in the middle of telling Jon about a new book he’d started that day, when he stopped and interrupted himself. “Oh! That reminds me.” Jon felt a little jolt in his chest at the sudden outburst. Listening to Martin talk to him directly like this was always so . . . intimate, in a strange way, as though Martin’s voice was both very close and very far away at the same time. “I wonder,” Martin was saying, “if you actually got my poems today. I’m not entirely sure how sacrificing writing works, especially for you. I tried burning them, like everything else, but maybe burning paper isn’t the way to go about honoring an angel of the written word.” Martin laughed to himself, and Jon felt the vibrations of it in his chest.

They didn’t do much to distract from the sudden surprise that gripped him. He spun around to look back at his poetry section, where the sheets of paper were still stuffed haphazardly into the shelf. “You . . . sacrificed it?” Jon said aloud, though he knew Martin couldn’t hear him. He had honestly not known that burning prose could work as a sacrifice, nor that it would show up in his library, of all places. Jon had assumed he and his moths were the only ones who could add to his collection.

Apparently not.

Almost cautiously, Jon made his way to the shelves and picked up the sheets of paper again, as Martin went on: “I’m pretty sure something must have happened, because try as I might, I can’t remember what I wrote down. Burning it must have erased it from my memory. Which makes sense, I suppose—it wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice if I could just write the poem again.” Jon felt Martin sigh, deep in his chest. “Well, here’s hoping you got some power from it, at least.”

Soon after that, Martin’s voice quieted as his prayers ended and he went, presumably, to bed. Jon was, as always, a bit disappointed to hear him go, but this time he was eager to get back to the poetry he still held in his hands.

Surely, it wasn’t an invasion of privacy if Martin had intended for Jon to have the poems. After all, he’d _sacrificed_ them to Jon. And yes, Jon knew the act of sacrifice was what gave him power, not the reading, but . . . he was still so _curious_. Resolutely, he brought the papers to his reading nook and began to read.

The poetry was, Jon imagined, far from the best the mortal world had to offer. He was no connoisseur, not of this mode of writing, but even he knew that Martin wasn’t a poet comparable to the others in Jon’s collection, such as Holdtstald, or Ranoire. Still, this was Martin’s poetry, and that counted for much, in Jon’s opinion.

He could hear Martin’s words when he prayed to him, and if he really tried and used a bit of power he could feel what Martin was feeling, whether he was injured or upset or joyful, but Jon wasn’t privy to Martin’s innermost thoughts. Poetry, as Jon understood it, could sometimes be a window into mortals’ minds and hearts. Sure enough, though the poems were mostly about everyday things, like cobblestone streets and trees in a wood, there was something about the words that struck him as very—for lack of a better word—Martin-ish. Reading them, as innocuous as they seemed, felt like peering just a little into Martin’s head, but on Martin’s terms, not Jon’s. It felt . . . comfortable. Satisfying.

Jon couldn’t help but smile as he went back to the beginning and read through the poems a second time.

He honestly did not expect Martin to ever sacrifice that sort of thing again. Though the poems had, as far as Jon could tell, provided a good deal more power than food or dedicated kills, Martin hadn’t seemed keen to cast more of his poetry into the fire. Jon didn’t blame him, of course; he could only imagine how strange and disquieting it must feel to lose your memory of something you’d just written. More than that, Jon knew how much poetry meant to Martin. It was one of the only things he felt that truly belonged to him, that was truly _his_. Martin had told Jon as much during one of his more downtrodden prayers. An angel’s power, Jon surmised, was not worth the sacrifice of one’s closest comfort.

Yet, a few days later, another sheaf of papers appeared in Jon’s poetry section, right next to the first one.

He felt a bit guilty for nearly misshelving the ancient religious text he’d been skimming through in his haste to get to the new arrivals, but it was forgotten as soon as he had them in his hands.

“ ‘The Beating of Wings,’ ” he read aloud, more certain than before, running his fingers over the now-familiar handwriting, “by Martin K Blackwood.”

It was only one poem, several pages longer than any of those Martin had sent the first time, and it was far more . . . specific in its subject matter. It was about moths, specifically Jon’s, which flitted in and about Martin’s daily life. Jon was only a little embarrassed; it wasn’t as though they were acting based on _his_ whims, after all. They were their own creatures with their own wills and lives. Certainly, they were sometimes more . . . in tune with Jon’s attitudes towards things like books, and perhaps also paladins, but Jon could hardly be blamed if they happened to do things like land in Martin’s hair, or wait by his windows until he unlatched them so they could come inside, as Martin described in the poem.

Jon was glad, at least, that they seemed to be keeping Martin company. He knew the man could get quite lonely, sometimes, and Jon was constantly puzzled as to why Martin did not have more mortals in his life who wanted to spend time with him. Why didn’t they understand how lucky they were, that they could speak to Martin and he would speak back, see Martin and have him see them too, that they could sit with Martin and have their knees touch and the both of them would be able to feel it?

Sometimes, especially on days when Martin was lonely, there was nothing that Jon wanted more than to just touch his knee to Martin’s, and let him know that Jon was there. That Jon was listening, that Jon always listened, and that Jon felt that same loneliness too, sometimes.

Moving between planes required power, far more than Jon normally had. With the considerable amount of power Martin’s poetry had given him (clearly the poems had meant a lot to Martin, and Jon was as ever grateful), Jon kept trying to reach out to Martin from where he was all but stuck on the ethereal plane. With every new sacrifice, he could feel his power building, gathering strength, and there were times he felt for sure he could breach the planar barrier.

Still, every time he tried, it just wasn’t enough to break through. After every unsuccessful attempt to reach out to hold Martin’s hand, or brush his hair from his face, or even just to let Martin _see_ him for a second or two, Jon would pace restlessly around his library, glowering at the books as though they’d offended him personally.

His moths, at least, were good listeners, and would wait patiently while Jon ranted and fretted in equal measure.

“I care so much for him,” he told them once, at the end of a long, frustrated monologue, as he sank despairingly into an armchair. “And he doesn’t even know, because I can’t figure out how to tell him.”

From the moment Martin had first knelt before Jon’s shrine and sworn his devotion to him, Jon had been trying to show him how much he cared, how grateful he was. Martin may have been Jon’s only paladin, but he was also the only paladin Jon ever wanted, and he deserved to know that. But no spell of protection or small favor granted or blessing bestowed ever quite seemed like enough. Martin was appreciative, of course, and he seemed to know, at least, that Jon was attentive and responsive, which was more than could be said for some of the greater, more powerful angels. Still, Jon couldn’t find a way to make Martin understand just how much he meant to Jon, that Martin wasn’t just his paladin, not just a source of power, but the being that Jon cared for and—yes, and _loved_ , more than anyone else across any of the planes of existence.

Perhaps it was appropriate, in an ironic sort of way, that the next poem Martin sacrificed was about loneliness.

This time, the sacrifice was so significant Jon actually felt the surge of power when it arrived. Not wanting to waste time moving through the library himself, Jon brought the poetry section to him, the books shuffling across shelves and up the floors until they were at his side. Sure enough, another sheaf of papers, neatly shelved next to its predecessors, was waiting for him.

The poem, which was titled “In the Fog,” wasn’t long, but it was . . . dense. Every word had weight. Every line was purposeful. Jon could feel the quiet, resigned isolation in it, as though the feeling was coming from Martin himself. He knew that Martin was nowhere near the Ranoires of the world, but for the first time, as he read that poem, Jon thought that he finally understood what it was that mortals saw in poetry.

Jon reread the poem eight times before putting his foot down. “That must be enough,” he said to himself as he carefully put the pages back into their rightful place on the shelf. “It has to be enough, this time.”

Standing to his full height, even letting his wings stretch out a bit, Jon reached inside himself and gathered up every bit of his newly-acquired power. It was more than he’d ever had before, and he could feel it coil up and ready itself, eager to be directed.

Just as he had in his previous attempts, Jon closed his eyes and thought of Martin. Instantly, he could see him, through the eyes of a nearby moth; he was in his cottage, preparing dinner, as it was getting to be evening on the mortal plane. He seemed at ease, almost cheerful, as though the poem he’d written only hours before had been entirely inconsequential. But Jon could sense that lingering feeling of loneliness coming from Martin, a melancholy undertone that persisted beneath his attempts to cheer himself up.

There was nothing Jon wanted to do more in that moment than to reach out, to comfort, to soothe, and so he did.

His power reached with him. It moved at Jon’s command, stretching out from the ethereal plane towards the mortal one, as Jon’s hand did the same—

—and it went through.

Jon almost shouted with joy as he felt his hand move through the planar barrier as easily as breaking the surface of water. He saw and felt everything as his hand reached out to Martin, to his actual, physical form, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

It was the first thing Jon could think to do, and he inwardly rejoiced when Martin jerked in surprise, staring down at his right hand, clearly having felt the contact, though apparently unable to see anything. Jon tried to push further, to try to get his whole body through the barrier, to manifest his full physical form, to let Martin see him—

But Jon could already feel his connection to the mortal plane fading. Even as he poured more power into his efforts, the planar barrier pushed him back. There was a moment of struggle where there almost seemed to be a stalemate, but then Jon’s power began to weaken, and all at once he was thrown unceremoniously back into the ethereal plane and into his library, falling backwards into an armchair, where he lay for quite a while, completely exhausted.

He did not stir until, sometime later, Martin’s usual nightly prayer roused him. Jon sat up disgruntledly, trying not to feel entirely humiliated. After all, he had gotten through, if only for a moment. Still, the amount of power it had taken just to do that much . . . manifesting in a full physical form seemed impossible in comparison.

That night, Martin made no mention of the phantom touch on his hand, which Jon chided himself for being disappointed by. He did bring up the poem, and asked, rhetorically, if Jon had received it.

Martin couldn’t hear Jon’s voice, had never heard Jon’s voice. And, Jon was starting to suspect, he probably never would. Jon answered him anyway. “Yes, Martin, I did receive it. I read it, too. It was very good. It was excellent. Maybe a critic wouldn’t agree, but _I_ am the Angel of Written Knowledge, and _I_ say that Martin K Blackwood is a bloody excellent poet.”

Through the eyes of the moth perched on Martin’s bedpost, Jon watched as Martin, having finished his prayers, rose from his kneeling position and began to snuff out the candles in his bedroom, just as he always did.

“I just want you to hear me,” Jon said tiredly. He reached out with the dregs of power he still had, trying to let his voice reach Martin’s ears. Martin did not so much as blink. “I really did like the poem, you know,” Jon went on, pointlessly. “I wish you wouldn’t burn them just for me. Since you forget them, after. Someday I’m going to bring them back to the mortal plane, so you can read them again. You deserve that.” Jon watched as Martin blew out the last candle and climbed into bed. “Oh, but you deserve a better angel than me, to begin with,” Jon said quietly, and looked away.

Once he recovered from his ill-advised visit to the mortal plane, Jon took to rereading Martin’s poetry whenever he had a spare moment. He moved the entire poetry section across the library to be closer to his reading nook, and put the B’s directly next to his chair.

It took much longer for the next poem to arrive than the others, long enough for Jon to grow concerned that Martin really had decided to stop sacrificing them. When it finally did arrive, like its predecessor, Jon sensed its presence before he saw it.

He rushed to his reading nook to find, as usual, a loose sheaf of papers, next to the other Blackwood originals in his library, which Jon had since bound into actual books with bits of string. Carefully, he extracted the newest set of unbound pages, settled back in his chair, and began to read.

The poem was titled “Lighthouse,” and seemed to be a companion piece to Martin’s previous poem. Though it was much longer than “In the Fog,” it was just as dense, and again, Jon was impressed by it. It seemed to be drawing on some metaphor for the absence of loneliness, which Jon supposed must be whatever the lighthouse represented. Or whomever, as the case may be; the poem definitely seemed as though it were alluding to a person. Jon swallowed down his irritation at the poem for not simply coming out and saying who it was. That was the point of poetry, he reminded himself. It was still knowledge, just a . . . different sort.

Jon read the poem a few times over, scouring every line for hints. Whomever the lighthouse was, they did seem to make Martin feel less alone. Apparently they were someone who looked out for Martin, whose presence in his life was almost constant, who cared for Martin deeply and for whom Martin cared deeply in return. This at least was satisfying to know; if Jon couldn’t be there for him, he was glad someone else could be.

But who _could_ it be, really? Who did Martin have in his life? It couldn’t be his mother, Jon was certain of that. Sometimes Martin mentioned acquaintances he knew from the village, or fellow paladins he sometimes fought with, but they hardly seemed to be constants in his life. Perhaps it was someone Martin simply hadn’t mentioned in his prayers. That was entirely possible. After all, if he had someone who was such a positive force in his life, maybe he didn’t feel the need to tell Jon about them; it wasn’t as though it was something Martin would need an angel’s help with.

Jon tried not to feel disappointed by the idea that Martin would keep something so important from him. Martin’s privacy was more important than a mystery acquaintance, he reminded himself. Far more important, at least, than Jon’s selfishness.

The poem, of course, provided no helpful specifics, and though Jon really did think it was some of Martin’s best work, those unanswered questions still hounded him. He found himself pacing around his library listlessly, turning the lines of the poem over and over in his head.

He was interrupted later that night when, as usual, he felt Martin’s voice tug at his attention, and he abandoned all thoughts of poetry in favor of listening. At first, the prayers went as normal; Martin talked about his day, which was no better or worse than could be expected, and made a request for a bit of luck for haggling in the marketplace the following morning, which Jon gladly provided with a small blessing.

Eventually, Martin brought up the poem, asking, as always, if Jon had received it, without expecting an answer. Jon, as always, answered anyway: “Yes, Martin, it was lovely, and I would be eternally grateful if you could tell me what it is actually _about_.”

Jon nearly jumped out of his chair when Martin kept talking, as though in response to his query, though surely it must have been a coincidence: “I actually . . . had someone specific in mind when I wrote this one. You probably don’t read the poems, why would you, I mean, once they’re burned and sacrificed, that’s all you need, right? No point in spending time reading them. But . . . well, on the off chance you are reading them . . . I mean, if you’re not, then you can just ignore this part of the prayer, that’s fine. But if—if you are, and you read the one I sent today . . . I don’t remember exactly what I wrote, of course. I never do. But I do remember who I was thinking of when I wrote it. Knowing me, I probably made them into some metaphor, but I don’t know for sure. Still, I—I know that whatever I wrote, I meant it. Maybe not literally, because, well, that’s how poetry works, but . . . emotionally. Emotionally, I meant what I wrote. And I, ah . . . I wrote it about you, angel.”

Jon, who had picked “Lighthouse” back up and was leafing through it for reference, stopped in his tracks. He looked up and stared off into the middle distance for a few moments, as Martin’s words echoed in his head, intertwined with all the lines of poetry he had been puzzling over before.

In retrospect, it all seemed so ridiculously clear.

“You mean a lot to me, angel,” Martin was saying, softer now, though Jon could hear every word as though they had started in his own chest. “And . . . I think I must mean something to you, too. Maybe you didn’t read the poems, and I wouldn’t blame you for that, of course not, I’m sure you’re a very busy angel. But . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s foolish, but something in me tells me that you did read them. And that you care. And that you’re listening now, feeling just as foolish and hopeful as I am.”

A laugh burst out of Jon at that, to his own surprise. He couldn’t understand how Martin, who had never even heard his side of the conversation, knew him so well, but for once, Jon didn’t want to question it. He did feel rather foolish, and hopeful, with an odd kind of buoyancy in his chest that he hadn’t felt since the day his first and only paladin had knelt at his shrine.

“I do care,” Jon said, into the echoing halls of his library, but somehow it did not feel as pointless as it had before. “I care for you, so much, Martin. I know you can’t hear me, not yet, but I’ll find a way to tell you. I . . . I promise. In the meantime . . . well, you seem to know me so well, already. Just . . . don’t doubt me, yet. Have—” Jon stopped, and smiled to himself. “Hah. Have faith in me, Martin. Just a bit more faith, and a bit more time, until I can get to you.”

By this time, Martin had risen and had gone about blowing out the candles, as calmly and methodically as ever. Still, if Jon extended his senses, he could feel a warm, beautiful joy at Martin’s core which, in that moment, matched his own.

The next poem to appear in Jon’s library swiftly arrived the following morning. It was titled “Clear Skies,” and in Jon’s humble opinion, it was some of Martin K Blackwood’s finest work yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
